


Don't Make Me A Shrew

by verymerrysioux



Category: Ranma 1/2, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24467806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verymerrysioux/pseuds/verymerrysioux
Summary: Termina has always been a magnet for chaos, attracting martial artists and other dubious (yet powerful) magic-bringers alike. A couple of newcomers hardly tips the topsy-turvy scales of this province, but it does add a new flavor into the mix. What changes will a father and his son bring? And will they be able to handle the typical madness that's often found in their new city?Inspired by the Linked Universe AU
Relationships: Link/Malon (Legend of Zelda), Malon (Legend of Zelda)/Time (Linked Universe), Time & Twilight (Linked Universe)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	1. Yapapa Yapapa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people meeting? That doesn't result in betrothal? In a Ranma 1/2 AU? More likely than you think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pluck the Links and throw them in Ranma 1/2.
> 
> That's it. That's the whole thing.
> 
> I'm plopping this as unfinished mainly because I have no idea if I'll make more, and I'd rather not post a new work over and over again for AU-AU oneshots.

It’s not like she’s incapable of managing the dojo. It’s the exact opposite, she’s extremely capable. She'd grown up dreaming to take over the dojo, had practically trained since she was little to inherit it. 

But there are other things to consider, her father and the ranch.

Despite her father's insistence, he wasn’t getting younger. She would be a horrible daughter to not worry about her dad who still thought he could wrangle cattle and carry large stacks of hay without breaking something.

So ignoring her father’s sayings of “I’m fine!” and “Don’t worry about me, these old bones are strong as ever!”, she decides it wouldn't hurt to have an assistant. That way she could have time to check on her father more frequently. 

She needs one, anyways. For maintaining and cleaning the dojo if nothing else.

She's interrupted by her musings when she sees a man wandering near the entrance of the dojo, looking at the doors bemusedly. 

“Can I help you?” She asks. 

The man turns and smiles. "Hello," he greets. The first thing she notices is the scar on his right eye and the tattoos on his face, the second is the giant parasol strapped on his back, the third is the eye-searing yellow yukata he's wearing. “Are you the owner of the dojo?”

She raises an eyebrow. "My dad’s retired but he still owns the place, I’m the teacher here."

He hums. “Amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?”

She thinks so too, but not a lot agree. A point for him, she’ll spend less energy beating the concept that she’s good enough to teach and be the master of the dojo.

“So how can I help you?”

"I'm interested in the assistant job," he explains. “I found your ad in the newspaper.”

"How good are you?"

"One of the best."

Incredibly bold words. There’s no arrogance in his voice, not in the way she’s familiar with. It's a statement, a simple fact he truly believes like how one would say the sky is blue. Whether it’s confidence in his own skill that deserves merit or arrogance that feeds delusions of power, she’s not sure. 

"Style?" She asks.

He shrugs. "Anything goes."

She snorts. "Gonna need more description than that." She gestures towards the gate, where you could see the outline of Termina's busy city. "The city's a martial arts melting pot."

He gives a lopsided smile.

"Anything Goes is my style," he explains, eye sparkling. "I've studied multiple styles over the years and just-" he waves his hand. "-picked what suited me. I don't really have a standard style, anything goes. Hence the name."

"Made and mastered your own style?" She gives him a once over. The yukata hides any indication of defined muscle, and while he’s tall, he doesn’t look as bulky as most martial artists. Heck, she looks more built than him.

But she knows better to judge someone from their looks. "Gonna have to prove it, goldenrod."

"Alright," he says amiably, tilting his head. "Now?"

She gives her own smile, sharp and bloodthirsty. Another point for him that she doesn’t need to elaborate what she wants. It’s refreshing to not be seen as fragile. "Right now."

* * *

She finds a pair of indoor slippers for him and goes to the center of the training room to stretch. “There are some spare gi at the right.”

“It’s fine, this is what I usually wear in training.” He removes his sandals as he enters.

“Did you have your own dojo?” She asks, curious. It’s not uncommon for dojos to be destroyed, challengers are a frequent problem and dojos could be overwhelmed by them, even the oldest schools of martial arts are not exempted to it. 

It’s why combining schools is popular, better to make allies for the inevitable enemies they’d face. 

“No, never saw the need to,” he replies. “I only have one student.”

“Oh?”

“My son.” The smile he gives is full of pride and joy. “He’s starting school today in Furinkan.”

“Oh.” She feels a little disappointed. “So you’re-?”

He shakes his head and gives a crooked grin. “Divorced,” he says. 

She curses her big mouth and nosy nature. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s old news,” he assures, giving a wave. “It was a mutual thing, we were more suited as friends.” He squats and does a few stretches.

She continues with her warm-ups as well. The training hall is empty, with just the two of them. The soft taps of their feet and their breathing are the only sounds in the room.

“Well, this got awkward really fast!” He chirps, clapping his hands to cut through the silence. “Let’s spar.”

She snorts, going into a stance. “Fight?”

He places his hands behind his back, standing idly. “Fight.”

Neither of them move an inch, staying in their respective stance and looking at each other. 

She scowls. Was this a waiting game? Was his style a more defensive one and he’s hoping she makes the first move? 

She clenches her fist. Or was he underestimating her? Not taking this seriously at all?

The man looks at her serenely, head tilted, arms at the back, shoulders relaxed. Looking for all the world that he wasn’t in a spar at all. It makes her want to punch that stupid (pretty) face.

So she does.

And he leaps.

He leaps, high and fast, above her head. Her fist meets nothing but air. She pulls back and looks up, waiting for the man to descend. He falls with a grace she wishes she had.

She punches again and he dodges, hands still behind his back. Scowling deeper, she lets out quick jabs, trying to predict where he would slip and evade. He’s always faster, her fists graze his hair and clothes and nothing more.

Well, if he’s going to be like that. 

She thrusts her fist for a punch and pulls back midway, feinting. She shifts her feet and twists, kicking forward. The man raises his arms for a block. There’s a sweet sense of satisfaction as she hears a grunt of pain and he’s pushed back several feet.

She smirks, putting her leg down. "You're holding back," she accuses. "If you're really that fast, you could have hit me seconds ago."

He huffs, shaking his arms. “I won’t hold back if you won’t.”

Ah, busted. She smiles. “I’d break more than just blocks if I do that, butterscotch.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I suppose,” he starts, rolling his shoulders. “I have to be faster to dodge your attacks.” He shifts his legs and raises his arms into a stance that reminds her of kenpo. “Fight?”

She grins. “Fight.”

This time she doesn’t wait. She charges, thrusting her fist the moment he’s in range. He dodges, quicker than before. She pulls back and punches with her other arm, then a kick, then another kick. She doesn’t stop. A barrage of hits versus a flurry of dodges and blocks.

The wind dances, swirling and slicing at the force of her power. She pushes him, forcing him in a corner. She throws another punch, he leaps again. Her fist makes contact with the wall and the wood cracks and splinters from her strength.

Without looking back, she pulls her fist from the hole, reaches behind her, and grips the man’s wrist tight before he could even touch her.

She smirks as she hears the man swear under his breath. She reaches out and grabs the hem of his top, she crouches low and pulls at the same time. Hard.

The man flies and hits the wall, the wall shudders and breaks, she thinks of the repair bills and cringes.

Panting, she steps over the newly-made hole, looking at the man sprawled on the yard, grass and dirt staining his clothes. His hair is a mess, strands sticking on his face from sweat. He’s breathing heavily as well.

“Yield?” She says, walking towards him and bending down.

He blows at a strand of hair over his good eye and grins, all teeth. “No.” 

Hands on the ground, he pushes up and twists, aiming a low kick on her legs. She swears and he laughs as she loses balance and falls.

“Anything Goes,” he reminds teasingly, standing up.

She locks his legs with hers in retaliation, disrupting his balance and making him stumble. He falls again and it’s a battle of pulling the other into the ground. Wrestling in the backyard. They roll and twist and punch and swear.

She slams him back on the ground, hands pinning his wrists. 

“Yield?” She asks again, a growl in her voice. Long red hair flowing off her shoulders.

The man stares at her, cheeks flushed with exertion. “Yield,” he murmurs softly. He lets out a breath. “So how was my performance?” He asks, tone cheerful. “Am I hired?”

She scoffs, standing up and offering a hand. He takes it. 

“Fighting’s not the only thing I want in an assistant,” she says, pulling him up. “Let’s wash up and talk shop. I don’t even know your name.”

“Saotome,” the man offers. “Saotome Time.”

What an odd name. An odd name for an odd man, fitting. “Tendo Malon.”

* * *

It starts with a perusal in the classified section of the newspaper. He looks through each job ad written, highlighting ones that catch his attention.

He hears the whistle of the kettle and stands up to pour hot water in two mugs. He gets a box of tea and places a bag in each mug. 

He goes back to reading, letting the bags steep for two minutes and seven seconds. He removes the bags after, then takes a sip from his own mug.

He sighs, disappointed at the aroma of the tea. Or lack thereof. Rather plain, far too mild. 

He misses the usual blend that he makes, but they’ve just moved into the city. There hasn’t been time to arrange their things, much less go out and shop for items beyond basic groceries.

He tilts his head when he hears someone going downstairs, grumbling and yawning all the way.

“Good morning,” he greets his son, who was still blinking away his sleep. “Breakfast is on the table, and I packed you lunch.” All take-out, his skill in cooking doesn’t go beyond making tea.

His son grumbles, and he’s adept in cranky child speak to know that’s a thanks.

“I told you the late-night jog would be a bad idea,” he comments, picking up his highlighter. “Especially the night before your first day of school, you always do more than jogging and lose track of time.”

“Didn’ wanna ski’ tr’ning,” his son replies, shoveling as much fried rice and scrambled eggs in his mouth as possible. “S’been days.”

“Chew slowly and talk after you swallow your food,” he says, giving his son a pointed look. “You don’t need to wolf down your food that fast.”

His son snorts, glaring at him for the joke. “Looking for jobs?" He asks. "I thought you got one.”

“Mm, wouldn’t hurt to have another.” He highlights another stub. 

Giving Chinese lessons wasn’t really lucrative, not when they’re living in a big city like this. And he does need something to do now that his son would be going to school.

His son frowns. “If we’re tight on money, I could find a job.”

“Maybe, once you’ve adjusted to school,” he says in a tone that implies the possibility is none. Let his son focus on normal teenage things first.

“... I could skip-”

“No, let me handle this, it’s my responsibility.” He gives him a firm look. “We’re not low on money, cub.” Not that low to be worrying. And Sheik always gave her share of money every month. “It's for later on, I want to move somewhere bigger than this.”

His son doesn’t comment, it's true that the apartment is small. Borderline stifling for their tastes. They were martial artists, they needed space to move.

“I don’t understand why I don’t do homeschooling like before,” his son says, still frowning. “That’s what we did in China.”

“Yes, well, I want you to socialize with people besides strange Chinese men,” he says mildly, taking a sip of his tea. “And while I’m flattered at your trust in my knowledge, there’s a limit to what I can tutor you. High school was more than a decade for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re an old man with creaky old bones and rotting memory.” His son rolls his eyes.

He chuckles. “Brat, would it hurt to give it a chance?” He asks. “I know you enjoyed middle school, this could be the same.”

His son crosses his arms. “I’d have more time for training,” he huffs. “Get stronger.”

“You’d have more time to learn,” and make friends. “Knowledge is power, it’s good to broaden your horizons.” 

It’s bad to have your life revolve in one thing, he knows that very well. 

He sighs. “Please, cub?”

A grumble. “Fine, but we’re still training after school, right?”

He smiles. “Of course.”

“What jobs are you thinking of taking?” His son asks, standing up and bringing his empty dishes. He peeks over his father’s shoulders, skimming the highlighted text. “Martial arts instructor?”

“I taught you, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, but I’m your kid, your _only_ kid.” His son wrinkles his nose, remembering how many students were often in one class in middle school. The dojo the clubs used were filled with students too. “I don’t think I’d have the patience to teach that many people, much less teaching them how to fight.”

He laughs. “It’d be an experience, at least.” He raises an eyebrow on one ad.

\---

**Help Wanted: Dojo Assistant**

Must be proficient in martial arts, must be willing to do menial chores such as cleaning, must have skills to handle large volumes of fighters in one go.

No prior experience required for the last two.

Location: Tendo Dojo, Clock Town.

\---

He hums, highlighting the stub. “Who knows, I might learn something interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes are hard.


	2. Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We've introduced the elder Saotome, now let's look at the younger one.

Family has always been him, dad, and sometimes mom.

He's always been on the move ever since he could remember. Going from one town to the next with dad. Staying in hotels or camping out at night when nature was abundant. Meeting new people, different yet the same in many ways. Learning new things, beyond the conventional way of training in martial arts.

Training.

He grew up with training. He knew how to punch and kick properly without breaking or twisting his bones, knew different ways to stretch that would ease the soreness after a grueling workout, knew the sweet spot of challenging his body or burning it to the ground (breaks were a thing dad always insisted). He knew that and more since he was little.

Martial arts is a lifestyle for him. He's brought to dojos and learns with the students. He's met veterans of their craft and listens to what they have to say. He's taught by dad, who always seems like a walking encyclopedia for martial arts. 

It's pretty cool. How many people can say they've been around most of Japan at twelve years old? And that they often visit China for random training trips? How many people can say they've gone to hidden villages and temples that taught all sorts of weird arts (martial or otherwise)?

He has a dad who can swing a large parasol made of metal like its the lightest thing in the world, who can walk off a punch from a man thrice his size like its nothing, who can taunt and dance around an opponent with an ease he hopes he'll have.

He has a mom who visits when she can. Training like them, just in a different path. She brings him new weapons and clothes to try. She updates herself about his life, asking in her quiet voice how he's been, what dad is training him now, how are his studies. All things that a mom worries about (at least, he thinks that's what moms should worry about, happiness, health, and education).

Sometimes she teaches him things, like the different ways to throw knives or how to entangle someone with wire. Sometimes he has the rare opportunity to see his parents spar. She fights differently from dad. Moves fluid like water, silent like a shadow. Nothing like the solid strength his dad exudes. Still powerful, still graceful, just different.

She leaves, she always does. 

There was a time it hurt, because if dad could stay then why couldn't she? He sees children with two parents and wonders if it's weird that he has one. Wonders if it's weird that he doesn't mind, that it only started bothering him when other people said he should be bothered by it.

But it fades with time. With gentle but honest words that dad gives again and again, words that tell him sometimes people fall out of love (or perhaps, were never in love). That staying together would cause more harm than good. That they love him and that never changed, would never have changed.

He has dad and that's enough.

(But sometimes he wonders what it would feel like to have a mother that stayed.)

* * *

School has always been an on and off thing for him. He doesn't attend kindergarten, dad gives him lessons while they’re on the road (or hiking, or on a boat, it varies). Martial arts and standard education went hand in hand growing up.

He gets tutors once dad has a more stable source of income beyond odd jobs and favors. Mom starts chipping in too (and there's a morbid thought, one that lingers when he sees her armor and knives and quiet demeanor, that wonders if she takes jobs like the ninja and assassins he sees in TV and manga). 

He doesn't understand why he should learn that much about math, science, literature, and history. But he knows it's important to both his parents, so he does his best the same way he does his best in martial arts.

He's enrolled in an actual school when he's eleven. Dad decides to stay a bit longer in one city and thinks school would be a good experience for him. He gets a uniform, a bag with school supplies, and books. Dad's a lot more excited about it than he is.

It's an experience, he's not sure if it's good per say, but it's not bad either.

He has time to make friends beyond acquaintances. Not a lot. But it feels nice to be able to stay long enough to talk and make connections. 

The only time he's done that was when he was six, and he'd always play with this kid who's dad owned an okonomiyaki stand (they always got free okonomiyaki, the dad saying it was advance payment for dealing with his wild child).

There's a classmate of his who gripes and grumbles a lot (more than him when he's sleep-deprived), who hoards as many things as he does knowledge, always taking it as a challenge to one-up him in class. There's another, a student a year younger than him, who studies martial arts too, but is never in any sports clubs because he can never find them.

It's a change of pace. They stay in Ordon City for three years and pack up for another training trip. He's not surprised. He expected it. But he'd be lying to himself if he says he won't miss the friends he made.

(He wonders what it would be like to stay longer.)

* * *

His dad regales him of horror stories of his love life, if one can call it that.

Of marriage proposals thrown at him left and right, of fights that were essentially tug-of-wars to see who got to keep him, of accusations that he was cheating, unfaithful, breaking promises he didn't know he had made.

He's known, in his own clueless way, that dad had issues with romance. The way he avoided certain people or how he'd be tense in one moment and try to hide the next. The way he stiffened at the word "arranged marriage" and any variants of that. He thought that maybe dad, just, divorced a lot. Or something. Because divorces were always messy and horrible in TV and the reason his parents aren't like that is because they're too awesome to waste time in drama.

"I'm not sure what to expect when you decided to give me the talk," he says, stomach churning when he remembers the times his dad abruptly left a city. Picking him up, packing their things. Running away and never coming back. "But this wasn't it."

He remembers there were martial artists always commending him, asking if it would be cool if he'd study here, asking what he'd think of mixing his martial arts with theirs. 

"What do you think of my daughter?" They'd often ask, and he answers that she’s nice, or fun, or great in sparring. Always confused and annoyed. The tightening of dad’s eye and the forced smile makes sense now, as he nods at the teachers who commend how talented he is, how full of potential.

Do you want to talk about your son’s future? They ask, holding the hand of their daughters. And dad says no, always says no, and says it’s time for them to go home.

(Combining schools is common, encouraged even. The oldest, and easiest, form of agreement is marriage.)

Dad snorts, combing his hair back. "I figured you're old enough to know the mistakes I've made," he says, dry and bitter. "I don't know what romantic love is, but I'm very well-verse on what it's not. I don't want you to be in that situation at all."

"That's one way to put me off having sex," he mutters.

"Oh, we're not done!" Is the cheerful reply, and the stomach curdling disgust is replaced with creeping horror as dad brings out a book that is definitely not about martial arts. Nor would it be accepted in a school curriculum. "I'm not discouraging you to explore, I just want you to be educated and play it safe! Now, this is something your mother got for you just for this occasion-"

"She what?!"

"It even has chapters about sexuality and gender beyond heterosexua-Cub, get back here!"

How about no.

He's dragged back eventually, dad lecturing him about jumping out of the window. 

(He wonders, after all his embarrassment has faded, if this is why he's never seen any of his family besides his mom. He wonders if he'd want to now.)

* * *

"I'm thinking you study and graduate high school back home," dad comments, looking at a pamphlet the nice lady in the port gave them. "It would make college easier."

It takes him a while to figure out he means Japan. "I'm going to college?"

"That's a choice you can make," dad replies.

"Why?" He asks, baffled. "I don't need a degree to be a martial artist."

Dad hesitates. "I want you to have choices," he says slowly. "I don't... you don't have to be a martial artist if you don't want to."

He scowls. "What's the point of all my training if I won't be a martial artist?"

"The point is you chose it because you wanted to," dad answers. "Not because it's all you've ever known."

He wants to retort that if that's what dad wanted, he should have never started all these training trips. He should have known better. They should have stayed in Ordon, where he had friends that didn't think he was just the new weird kid. 

Acerbic words threaten to pour out his mouth, but he bites it down. Because he's fifteen and he's older and he can hear what's unsaid and see what his parents try to shield him away from, and for once he wonders.

Did his parents know better?

If he'd grown up with arranged marriages and only martial arts, would he know better?

Because for all that his life wasn't normal, it wasn't lacking in opportunities. Dad lets him learn other things besides martial arts (giving the evil eye to anyone saying that what he's learning is weak and unmanly), mom is adamant he doesn't skimp on elementary and middle school lessons. For all the times he's not in an actual school, he's in the same level of Japanese kids his age. He knows he can catch up without putting much effort.

"Okay," he says, sighs really. Tired. Dad is trying, he knows that. He's trying, grasping on concepts that he's never truly understood, but understood enough that he didn't want to deprive that from him. Normalcy in his odd way. "Fine, I'll try high school."

Dad smiles (he ignores the relief in his eye). "Don't be so sulky, it won't be too bad," he chuckles. "And it won't be for a while, there are some places I want to show you before we leave."

"Which are?"

"The Amazon village your mother and I went to a long time ago." He hums. "It's near a popular tourist spot too, ancient springs, I believe? We never went there."

"A relaxing dip sounds amazing right now," he admits.

(He wonders what it would be like to have a normal family, a mother that stayed and grandparents that didn't see children as contracts. Maybe a few siblings.)

* * *

It was not amazing and they did not have a relaxing dip.

There's a warning right outside the entrance not to jump in the springs. He's read the warning, he knows how to read Chinese (mostly, he's not as fluent as dad).

For all that he inherited mom's sensibilities and some of her wisdom, his recklessness is all dad's. And if a sign says he can't do it, he wonders if he can (and wonders what happens if he does). So while dad is talking with the guide, asking questions about its history and uses and all the boring things dad loves to ask about. He dips his finger in one spring.

And is immediately pulled inside by an invisible force.

The thing about these springs is that they're magic. They don't act like normal water. They're called drowned springs for a reason. Their original curse for the longest time had been to pull victims and keep them underwater forever. It's only in recent centuries that the pull has loosened and villagers have no need for rituals and charms to submerge themselves in the pools safely.

Dad hears his panicked scream and immediately rushes to where he was... drowning? It's not really drowning in as much his body feels cold and numb. Moving is hard, like his brain has forgotten how his limbs work.

He’s pulled out, and much to both their shock, dad gets a large wolf instead of a human boy. The chaos of him howling in confusion and dad holding a thrashing wolf makes another victim fall into a spring.

There's ominous silence after the splash as he realizes that he's on the ground and dad isn't holding him anymore.

The guide has the gall to look at them, wide grin unchanging, and comments, "My, what terrible fates have befallen you two."

He wonders if that's what he always says to all the clueless tourists. Creepy asshole.

* * *

"Uh, nice to meet all of you," he starts, bowing stiffly. "I'm Saotome Twilight. Just moved to Termina."

Murmurs fill the classroom, and he knows all of the students are looking at his Chinese-style clothes and the markings on his face. He's upgraded from new kid to new kid with weird clothes and weirder tattoos.

His homeroom teacher smiles. "Take the empty seat near the window," he says. "Then we can start homeroom."

"Yes, sensei," he says, ignoring the stares his new classmates are giving him.

He takes his seat and is about to pull out his notebook when someone taps his back. He turns around, giving the student behind him a questioning look.

The student grins and asks, “So what’s with the tats? Are you yakuza?”

This was going to be a very long three years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao don't worry, Time isn't going to be a Genma Saotome.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, nay, or meh?


End file.
